


Nine Stitches

by saltyburning



Series: Recrudescence [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester Angst, Dean Winchester Raises Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Takes Care of Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Tries, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed Dean Winchester, Fluff and Angst, Gen, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Kid Winchesters (Supernatural), Light Angst, Nesting Dean Winchester, Nightmares, POV Dean Winchester, POV Third Person, Psychic Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Angst, Sam Winchester Has Nightmares, Sam Winchester Has Powers, Sam Winchester Needs a Hug, Sam Winchester's Visions, but the very end has them as adults, we love ourselves some comforting brothers and a little bit of horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:06:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29572209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyburning/pseuds/saltyburning
Summary: Sam has these nightmares, and sometimes they come true.Some things shouldn’t be ignored.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Recrudescence [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2172561
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	Nine Stitches

_Then._

When he heard that they were staying in an actual house for the next few months instead of hopping motels, Dean was ecstatic. Sure, he didn’t complain about where they stayed— he wasn’t a baby. But staying in an actual _house_ was something he looked forward too. 

The world seemed to move at a slower pace, somehow. He’d have time to put up the Led Zeppelin posters he kept curled in his luggage, have time to spread his belongings out and count every single one of them. A penny found in an oily puddle of a gas station’s parking lot, a worn-out and frayed bracelet tied together by the first boy he had kissed, a receipt for a cherry pie and three orange sodas— countless items lined his shelves for however long they’d stay in one place. He was a notorious hoarder, much to his father’s dismay, but every memory is what kept him tethered. 

This house was like all the others. Small, gray, smelling of dust. Whoever said that you never know what to expect when renting a house must’ve been lying because every place they’d been was the same. Even so, it was familiar, and Dean reveled in it. 

He and Sam had been practically tossed inside without a word, their dad already off on a hunt, leaving them with enough food for one meal between them and the promise that he’d be back by five o’clock. Dean tried to swallow the bitterness that rose in his throat as he looked down at his little brother. Being left behind always made him uncomfortable, like his bones had shifted in his skin, just enough to agitate him. He wished he could be on the hunt with John, out there and _doing something_ instead of cramped in a house with more rooms than he was used to and an emptiness that seemed more solid than the walls around him. 

Dean had blown out twelve birthday candles this year, quietly, sitting on a moonlit dock with his toes dipping into the algae-ridden pond and his fingers brushing against the bracelet-giver’s hand. None of his wishes had ever come true. 

Since then, he’d decided to be strong instead of hopeful. He was almost thirteen, the older brother and the one left in charge. It was time to grow up. 

He rubbed a finger across his wrist as the rumble of the Impala faded. “C’mon, Sammy. Let’s go make lunch, alright?” He glanced at his brother, who frowned up at him. 

“Why does dad have to leave _again_?” 

“Dude, what does it matter? I’m hungry, let’s see what we have to eat.” Dean scoffed, brushing the question aside as he shoved Sam in front of him and stepped into the kitchen. 

A thin beam of sunlight and stuffy, humid air leaked in from an open window in front of the sink. He didn’t bother closing it. He walked past and tugged open the refrigerator. It was silent and just as hot as the rest of the house. Their dad must’ve not payed for electricity. Maybe they weren’t staying for as long as he thought. 

He pulled out a cooler— the only thing sitting in the fridge, fortunately— and dropped it on the counter with more force than what was necessary. The noise from the impact fell flat and echoless, drowned out by the quiet birdsong from the window. 

Sam pulled himself up onto the stool in front of the counter, blinked at Dean expectantly. 

Dean sighed and shook his head. “Alright, let’s see what we have.” He flipped open the cooler’s lid.

* * *

Cooking had always been one of Dean’s favorite activities. It kept him busy, and allowed him to feel like he was actually doing something important. The sizzling of eggs filled the kitchen, harmonizing with the bees darting around outside and the impatient tapping of Sam’s nails on the counter. 

Under his breath, he hummed a song he didn’t know the name of. A memory he kept carefully locked away except for occasions like this flickered in his mind, an overused recording. 

It was golden and hazy with age— his mother stood in a kitchen with sunlight filtering through her hair to create a halo. She sang a song, its words long forgotten, and turned to look at Dean. Her eyes crinkled with laughter, and that was it. The recording cut off, the memory stored but meaningless. 

Dean clung to those meaningless seconds like a lifeline. 

He told himself it was to honor her. To be a better son, to be a better hunter. To be strong. 

But a thought crawled in the back of his mind, whispering that maybe, if he was really good, he could have peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches with the crust cut off.

* * *

The sun had dipped down to the horizon, as if too tired to hold itself up any longer. It shone amber, gleaming sharply against the window and stretching across the wall. Dean’s stomach growled and he cursed at it silently. 

Crickets and the scratching of pencil flowed through the room. Dean watched Sam diligently fill out his homework, thought about the Midwestern town they had left behind them. “You don’t need to do that, you know.” He wiped a finger across the condensation on the counter and watched it fill itself back in. 

“Yeah I do.” Sam’s pencil didn’t stop moving. Dean didn’t argue— he knew enough about the similarities between studying and cooking. 

He slid himself off his stool and clapped his hand against his brother’s shoulder. “I’m going to sleep, wake me up if anything happens.” 

“Okay.” 

“And close the stupid window,” Dean added, although it didn’t make much of a difference. Windows didn’t stand in the way of demons that appeared in houses and lit fires and killed moms and leaned over baby brothers’ cribs and— 

He checked the salt lines before heading into his room. 

It was rare that he got a room to himself, and normally he’d be bouncing off the walls in celebration. But somehow, today had been more exhausting than when he had a hunt to be on. It was like the humidity had sunk into his bones and weighed him down. 

He collapsed on his bed— just a ratty mattress on the floor. He lay on his back and looked up at the ceiling, counting water stains. His arms were spread out, palms facing upward. Vulnerable. The air brushing against them grew cooler and the water stains gradually became less visible through the darkness. 

He blinked lazily. Once, twice. His eyelids took too long to respond, as if slowed by blood loss. He blinked again and kept them shut. 

Something tapped against his shoulder and he flung himself upwards, poised to fight— 

Two eyes peered at him through the shadows, shining with tears. A sniff, and a quiet wail, “ _Dean_ ,” 

Dean huffed and sat back down on his mattress. He checked his watch. One in the morning. “What the hell, Sammy?” 

“Nightmare,” came the response, wobbly with emotion. 

Dean shook his head. “C’mere.” He patted the space next to him and Sam took a seat. “What was it about?” 

Sam rubbed at his eyes with his palms, smearing the tears and snot to his forehead. “Dad— he was in the woods and he— his stomach got all torn and he—“ Sam broke off into sobs and hid his face in his brother’s shirt. 

Dean rubbed his back, kissed the top of his head. “It’s alright, Sammy. It was just a dream. Dad’ll be back in the morning and he’ll be fine.” 

“Promise?” 

“Of course. I’m always right, aren’t I?” 

That earned him a huff of laughter. “No, you’re almost _never_ right.” 

“And you’re so smart?” Dean grinned. 

“ _I_ do my homework.” Sam moved his face away from his shirt and looked up at Dean. His eyes still were flooding tears but he was smiling, so Dean counted that for something. 

He held onto his brother like he held onto his memories. “I’ll be right on this one, Sammy. Let’s get some sleep.”

* * *

In the morning, their father was driven home by a stranger in a pickup. He stepped into the doorway, gripping his stomach. 

Nine stitches, he said.

* * *

_Now._

The bunker ached with exhaustion. It was a comfortable kind of ache, the kind that’s paired with swollen bruises marking success. 

Dean sat on his bed, whiskey in hand. His mind hummed enough for his vision to turn golden at its edges. The hunt had gone well but he was glad to be home. 

He mused on the idea. His entire world had changed. He had a kitchen of his own that he could cook just about anything in and buy whatever ingredients he wanted for. He had a boyfriend— an angelic one, at that. His mom, the spirit of memories and the mystical figure he had barely known, was solid and breathing just a couple rooms over. 

There was Jack, the nephilim and the symbol of his guilt. His grip tightened on the whiskey glass as he remembered the words he had shouted, how within the echoes of his voice he could have sworn he heard his father. Jack had just stared up at him, a powerful half-archangel ready to listen to the man who had taken him fishing once. 

He wondered whether he should feel relieved or terrified at Jack’s willingness to listen. 

Then there was Sam. Dean sighed and set the glass down on his table. The liquid in it swung from side-to-side, shimmering fire in the lamplight, before settling. 

Dean had three images playing in his head. Sam, the child, the little kid who needed protection and a surface to finish his homework. Sam, the younger brother, the former college student with floppy hair and a bloody nose. And Sam as he was now, too old for his skin and too young for his responsibility. 

He thought back to Sam, hunched over the library’s desk, hands snaking through his hair and blood dripping onto papers and a million invisible futures flashing in front of his eyes. 

_It was like a dam had broken_ , he remembered Sam saying. _And everything just— it just flooded through._

Dean shook his head and leaned back against the bed frame. His walls were lined with seemingly random items most people would term as “junk”, and his ceiling was free of stains. 

The bunker was quiet. 

Then there were familiar footsteps, a pause, and a heavy knock on the door. 

“Come in,” Dean rasped. 

Sam swung open the door, crept through and closed it behind him almost immediately. His face was shrouded by his hair, head bent timidly. 

Dean waited for him to say something, but after a few seconds of silence, he prompted, “What’s up?” 

A mumble. Sam’s fingers were trembling, Dean noticed. He sat up sharply. “Sammy?” 

Sam sniffed and looked up. Tears streaked down his face, mixing with dried blood from yet another nosebleed. “I had a nightmare,” he whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> Literally screaming, I accidentally put destiel in here. Girl help, the hellers have brainwashed me or something. 
> 
> Anyways, this is a bit more Dean-centric than what I usually write, but it was actually really fun. Kinda awesome to have an outside perspective on Sam’s powers, you know?


End file.
